get tough if he didn’t hurry it up.
He borrowed the best razor, shaved. Borrowed the face lotion and the hair tonic. The stuff must be Alfie’s, the day man wasn’t any sweet-smelling guy. He carried the gun with him as he whistled back to the bureau. He was clean in the mirror; he looked good. He even washed his pocket comb before combing his short curly black hair.
He whistled as he unlocked the suitcase, threw back the lid. Clean socks, clean underwear, clean shirts. If he’d had any sense he’d have carried an extra suit along. But he’d been counting on a quick finish to the deal and he’d be in Mexico, having linens tailor made. He’d have brought an extra anyway if there’d been room. A suit wasn’t as important as the baby. It gleamed dully in the bottom of the suitcase. The sweetest tommy-gun a fellow ever owned. A little present from the Sen two years ago. His baby. He’d never used it; he was too important in the organization to handle artillery. That was for the mugs. But he wanted one and the Sen gave him what he wanted then. It might come in pretty handy now when he started in business for himself in Mexico. A tommy was handy on the Sen’s business in Chicago. He rubbed his hand over the stock and he grimaced. At himself. He was like a kid with a toy. But it was a sweet baby.
He picked out pale green silk shorts, dark green hounds’ tooth socks; a white shirt and a foulard tie of the same green patterned in gray. He was a neat dresser; he’d learned from the Sen. Nothing loud; that was mug stuff. He could look as good as the Sen any day; better, he was young and not a bad-looking guy; the Sen was a little squirt with a weasel face. If Iris Towers bumped into him today she wouldn’t look down her nose.
He put on his shorts, his socks and his shoes, polishing the shoes with his dirty laundry. He wadded the laundry in a corner of the suitcase. He was getting ready to lock up when there was a rap on the door.
He froze. Called, “Whozit?”
“Your suit, it is ready.”
It wasn’t the day clerk; it was an accent. Count on Butch to send it up by a boy, another tip. And he’d take a cut. He said, “Okay,” and he slapped down the lid of the suitcase. He took a quarter from his small change on the bureau, pushed the automatic under a handkerchief, went over and opened the door.
The kid was little and brown. He held the suit by the hanger. The suit looked swell.
“Thanks,” Sailor said. He gave the kid the quarter, shoved the door shut in his face. He locked it. It was worth a quarter to finish dressing without the big clerk standing around watching.
He looked swell when he was dressed. Looked and felt swell. He filled his pockets again, the gun in his right pocket resting easy there. It was a small automatic; it looked like a toy but it wasn’t any toy. It worked. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, borrowed Alfie’s brush for his hat. A good hat shaped itself up again with brushing. Even if you’d been sleeping in it. This was a good one. Fifteen bucks from the same place the Sen bought his hats.
He locked the suitcase, looked around. Everything the way it had been. Nothing of his left behind. The pink program. He folded it and stuck it in his pocket. Maybe he’d have a chance to read it yet, find out what was going on.
He dragged the suitcase down the stairs to the desk. The big fellow was alone there, glomming. Sailor rang the key on the counter. “Thanks,” he said. “Sure was a life saver.”
There was some respect in the guy now seeing Sailor the way he looked usually, the way he looked in Chicago. The guy said, “That’s all right. Want to leave the grip again?”
“No, I’m taking it up to La Fonda.” Sailor said it casual, just to see more respect in the guy’s piggy eyes.
“Let me have a couple of packs of Philip Morris.” While the guy was getting them out he asked, “Have any trouble with Alfie?” It wouldn’t be smart to play it too big here; he might
He borrowed the best razor, shaved. Borrowed the face lotion and the hair tonic. The stuff must be Alfie’s, the day man wasn’t any sweet-smelling guy. He carried the gun with him as he whistled back to the bureau. He was clean in the mirror; he looked good. He even washed his pocket comb before combing his short curly black hair.
He whistled as he unlocked the suitcase, threw back the lid. Clean socks, clean underwear, clean shirts. If he’d had any sense he’d have carried an extra suit along. But he’d been counting on a quick finish to the deal and he’d be in Mexico, having linens tailor made. He’d have brought an extra anyway if there’d been room. A suit wasn’t as important as the baby. It gleamed dully in the bottom of the suitcase. The sweetest tommy-gun a fellow ever owned. A little present from the Sen two years ago. His baby. He’d never used it; he was too important in the organization to handle artillery. That was for the mugs. But he wanted one and the Sen gave him what he wanted then. It might come in pretty handy now when he started in business for himself in Mexico. A tommy was handy on the Sen’s business in Chicago. He rubbed his hand over the stock and he grimaced. At himself. He was like a kid with a toy. But it was a sweet baby.
He picked out pale green silk shorts, dark green hounds’ tooth socks; a white shirt and a foulard tie of the same green patterned in gray. He was a neat dresser; he’d learned from the Sen. Nothing loud; that was mug stuff. He could look as good as the Sen any day; better, he was young and not a bad-looking guy; the Sen was a little squirt with a weasel face. If Iris Towers bumped into him today she wouldn’t look down her nose.
He put on his shorts, his socks and his shoes, polishing the shoes with his dirty laundry. He wadded the laundry in a corner of the suitcase. He was getting ready to lock up when there was a rap on the door.
He froze. Called, “Whozit?”
“Your suit, it is ready.”
It wasn’t the day clerk; it was an accent. Count on Butch to send it up by a boy, another tip. And he’d take a cut. He said, “Okay,” and he slapped down the lid of the suitcase. He took a quarter from his small change on the bureau, pushed the automatic under a handkerchief, went over and opened the door.
The kid was little and brown. He held the suit by the hanger. The suit looked swell.
“Thanks,” Sailor said. He gave the kid the quarter, shoved the door shut in his face. He locked it. It was worth a quarter to finish dressing without the big clerk standing around watching.
He looked swell when he was dressed. Looked and felt swell. He filled his pockets again, the gun in his right pocket resting easy there. It was a small automatic; it looked like a toy but it wasn’t any toy. It worked. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, borrowed Alfie’s brush for his hat. A good hat shaped itself up again with brushing. Even if you’d been sleeping in it. This was a good one. Fifteen bucks from the same place the Sen bought his hats.
He locked the suitcase, looked around. Everything the way it had been. Nothing of his left behind. The pink program. He folded it and stuck it in his pocket. Maybe he’d have a chance to read it yet, find out what was going on.
He dragged the suitcase down the stairs to the desk. The big fellow was alone there, glomming. Sailor rang the key on the counter. “Thanks,” he said. “Sure was a life saver.”
There was some respect in the guy now seeing Sailor the way he looked usually, the way he looked in Chicago. The guy said, “That’s all right. Want to leave the grip again?”
“No, I’m taking it up to La Fonda.” Sailor said it casual, just to see more respect in the guy’s piggy eyes.
“Let me have a couple of packs of Philip Morris.” While the guy was getting them out he asked, “Have any trouble with Alfie?” It wouldn’t be smart to play it too big here; he might
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